


Glissando

by sarahgene12



Series: Berceuse, Op. 57 [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV), Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Bittersweet, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Comfort/Angst, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Hathaway feeling sorry for himself, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Companion piece to "Cadence". It's three months after the first time Hathaway was visited by Morse's ghost. His father has just died, and he's feeling alone and wrong and unable to admit just how much he misses Lewis. He and Morse have a bit of a "whose childhood was worse" contest and something strange happens just when Hathaway is beginning to like his unusual new companion.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverInk/gifts), [Lucyemers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/gifts), [hurry_sundown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurry_sundown/gifts).



“Has something happened?” 

James barely reacts to the sound of a familiar voice; the only sign which gives him away is the slight jarring of his wrist. A small amount of brandy sloshes on the countertop. He fills the glass, and doesn’t stop to clean up the mess. The figure in the doorway doesn’t move. 

He walks slowly, carefully, to the armchair in the corner, and drops himself into it. He slouches, resting his glass on his belly, watching it rise and fall every time he breathed. His guest finally comes and sits in the rocking chair opposite. He waits.

James takes a pull on the nub of cigarette left smoldering in the ashtray. “My father’s died.” He takes a drink. 

Morse watches Hathaway’s face. He can’t tell exactly what the young inspector is thinking, and this bothers him. “What, today?” 

“No of course not. The funeral was today, he died nearly a week ago.” This derision was chased by a large gulp of brandy. When James turns his head to look at Morse, his eyes are the only part of his face giving him away. 

“And what are you doing here, besides? Do you know it’s been three months? Or were you away all this time, haunting other people?” He blinks, angry at the sensation of stinging in his eyes. He hasn’t cried all day, and he isn’t about to start now, not in front of this ghost. 

Morse stands; the rocking chair is still. Within three steps he is stood beside the armchair, looking down. “I wasn’t aware—I had no way of knowing so much time had passed. I don’t think I was anywhere, really, but then I sort of—sensed you. I thought you needed—something.” He gestures vaguely, then sighs.

James snorts, knocking the rest of the brandy back with enough force that some of it splashes his face. He leaves it there. 

“Well that’s very helpful. That’s everything I need, really: a bloody ghost who pops up whenever he damn well pleases. Seeing as you probably can’t pour me another drink, I don’t think I’ll be needing your help. Ta.” 

Morse sees the glass teetering precariously on Hathaway’s stomach before James draws another breath and it falls. Empty, the heavy crystal thuds to the carpet and doesn’t break. 

“Were you close to him? Your father?”

“Were you to yours?”

Morse takes a step away from the armchair. Out of the corner of his eyes, James sees him stuff his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket.  
“My father was a cab driver. I didn’t see him very much as a child, and I lived with my mother when they divorced. Once she died, I spent as much time as I could away from home, to keep out of sights of my stepmother.” 

“I think a shorter answer might’ve been ‘No’,” grumbled Hathaway. 

Morse grimaced. “Are you always this rude or is it the brandy talking? I’m only trying to say, I might understand a little about how you’re feeling.”

James kicked idly at the fallen glass and pushed himself upright. “Are we going to have a cuddle and talk about our daddies all night? I’m not really in the mood.” He rises, pushing the glass out of the way with his foot, and crosses to the kitchen. He looks away from Morse for only a moment but when he looks back, the glass is sitting on the countertop, and Morse is just behind it, looking pleased. 

“Neat trick,” James says, and shrugs. “Is it so boring out beyond the veil that you don’t have anything better to do than hang around in Oxford and move crystal? Or are you on holiday?” 

Morse runs a finger along the lip of the glass. “From what I saw last time I thought you might like some company. Seeing as my schedule isn’t exactly packed, I thought I’d see how long I could stand it. But I certainly wouldn’t consider it a holiday.” 

“I’ve got company, he’s just gone away for a bit. And I’ve got my sergeant, she’s not entirely useless on a night out.” James pauses. “And as far as your earlier question goes, my father and I tolerated each other. He was like yours, always away for this or that only he was an estate manager, a good step or two up from a cab driver, and worth a lot more money besides.” 

Something in Morse’s eyes cooled; James saw it when their eyes met again. 

“So you knew he started out as a groundskeeper for the Mortmaignes, then? Brushing leaves and trimming the hedges and so on?”  
“What’s your point.”

“My point is that whether I particularly cared for him or not, my father was just as worthy a man as your father, and I know you’re grieving but I’m not going to get into a class debate with you now. We’re not children.”

“Mmm. No, we’re not. In fact you sounded just like an old man right then. Well you were, I suppose.” 

Morse is quiet. 

“Sorry.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it. And I will go, if you like.” 

James sighs. He looks at Morse, unsurprised to see that his glance isn’t reciprocated. The other detective is fidgeting with the glass again, tilting it back and forth on its edges. James wonders how he’s able to do that, and almost asks. Instead a thought occurs to him and he says:  
“No. No you are right, I could use the company. But, why have you turned up here? Wouldn’t you rather like to speak to Robert? He’s due back in another three months, and I’m fairly certain he’d be thrilled—”

“I don’t think Lewis needs me anymore, James. He’s got Laura, and his children. He’s retired. And if you don’t mind me saying, that’s all for him. He’s got all that, and that’s wonderful, that’s good. He doesn’t need the ghost of his old boss floating in and messing all of that up for him.”  
James felt his eyes stinging again, and nearly cursed. Perhaps he would have, had he not noticed a change in Morse’s voice. 

Not quite daring to look at him, Hathaway instead asked, “And I do need you, I suppose? Because I don’t have any of that. I don’t have a life.” 

“At the risk of sounding arrogant, Inspector, I think you do need me. As for the ‘having a life’ bit, I think you’ve got the very promising beginnings of a good one.”

Hathaway finally looked up. 

Morse’s hair had turned white, and his features had softened into a rounder, pleasanter shape. The eyes, however, were the same.


End file.
